


Missing you (in my bones)

by stateofintegrity



Category: MASH (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-17
Updated: 2020-11-17
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:28:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27604904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stateofintegrity/pseuds/stateofintegrity
Summary: Klinger acts as Winchester's corpsman at a medical conference and reveals something he meant to keep to himself.
Relationships: Maxwell Klinger/Charles Emerson Winchester III
Kudos: 6





	Missing you (in my bones)

Of all the assembled 4077th, Winchester alone possesses the linguistic sensibility to call his corpsman de jeur a romantic. He never has, but if he knew Maxwell’s thoughts as the younger man trails him, trying to match his stride while admiring the clean lines of his legs in dress browns, he would… though perhaps cuttingly, for he would, Klinger thinks, no doubt be unnerved. The little Corporal, also in dress browns, had high hopes for this conference - has been thinking about it every night, stitching gentle fantasies out of moonbeams and the breath of his own sighs. Under the fluorescent lights of the main exhibit hall, Max is coming to accept that if he gets to do any sighing at all on this trip, it won’t be with that impossibly tall form stretched over him, one of his hands hastily untucking all those layers, tracing up over a fluttering abdomen, a soft stomach, a broad chest… Winchester stops before a diagram of an  _ opened _ chest and Max swallows his disappointment, wishes he was half as worthy of close study as all this medical stuff. 

At least there is the watching. Winchester is absorbed. This lets Max watch him in peace. He processes things on his own, Max has learned; he rarely asks questions or even engages in conversation with those presenters who linger near their displays. He wants to make sense of it all on his own and, with his brow furrowed, Max can see back to his inquisitive childhood, he thinks, or, at least, his early days as a young doctor. He feels something catch inside of him, a stitch in his side as if he’s run full out, unexpectedly, and it takes two more stops before two more panels he can barely look at (lace curtain injuries, arterial repair) before he realizes it’s pride. 

He frowns, features ever-mobile. He tries to fight off the expression- Hawk would say he was pouting and he hates to be treated like such a kid - but his face has always been an honest one. It’s done him in at dice more than once and it reflects, now, his resigned recognition that the very  _ last _ person the Major would want to be proud of him is a kid Corporal from Toledo who can hem a skirt in under twenty minutes. Max thinks that’s a real pity, too, considering. Much as the rest of the 4077th would readily praise the skill of Dr. Winchester, they don’t care all that much for  _ the man _ . Klinger admires his doctoring - Charles fights death hard as anybody in the OR and Klinger knows (as he’s not sure anybody else does except a handful of patients) that the Winchester’s compassion rivals Hawk’s - he’s just not  _ showy  _ about it. But he likes the man, too. He likes Winchester’s love of language and art and music. He likes the bond he shares with his sister. He likes his wit - much as it’s cut him before - and his tenacity. He loves the flash and color of his eyes, the Atlantic spindrift that drags him under (he’s always so happy to go), that has left him stupefied more than once. 

He loves the way that Charles moves. 

That energy- kinetic and actual - those familiar mannerisms, like movements in music that a loving listener anticipates and leans into as the first strains begin - they are what’s getting Max through this conference where he feels so out of place and unnerved, barely worthy of notice - like a servant or a dog. He knows the gracious way that Charles stoops to listen to a shorter speaker, knows the way he rejoices in solving something tricky - by tugging on his jacket cuffs. Charles does not know it, but the cuff links there were purchased, after a lucky dice game and some additional scrimping, by the man at his side. Charles thinks they’re a gift from Nori, but their changeable black and brown depths - cassiterite and goldstone - reminded Max of his own eyes (another notion fit for a romantic) and he likes the idea of something of his close to Winchester’s skin. 

As he shadows the taller man, hands open to receive notes or business cards or informational pamphlets that Winchester does not wish to be bogged down with, Max tries to think about how he’d tell someone else about how beautiful the Major is in motion. As he often does when he’s trying to think through something complicated, he composes a mental letter to his Uncle Abdul. Though never in jail and more likely to be found in the library than the pool hall, Uncle Abdul had been looked down on by Max’s father for his use of dresses to escape WWII… and, Max realized a lot later, after his father was gone and he was in the dresses himself, for what those frills and laces implied. 

_ Dear Uncle Abdul _ , 

_ I’ve written you so much about the Major that you probably feel like you know him. But  _ **_I_ ** _ know him in a crowded room just by the way he stands. He’s like those big cats we’ve watched on nature shows - afraid of nothing, looking straight ahead… not that he’d probably like me saying so, I guess.  _

_ He’s like art, too, like we saw in the museum that time. The Major wouldn’t probably believe I’ve ever been in a museum… or he wouldn’t think a museum in Toledo could have anything good. And he’s like dancing, like the kind you see on a movie screen on a hot summer Saturday when you’re hiding out from the heat with a bottle of pop and nowhere to be. And you look up and it’s just beautiful.  _

He stops the letter there. Of anyone on Earth, he knows he can trust Uncle A with the knowledge that he finds another man beautiful, that he’s fallen hard and fast for Winchester and has nothing to show for it but the occasional word of praise for a bit of clever banter and really bruised knees. 

But what’s the point? His family will never meet the Major, and Max will never get to praise the motions of his body. An errant beam from one of the lights hits one of Charles’ cuffs and sets a fire inside the small jewel there. 

There’s a little fire in Klinger, too, the one the Major never knows he sets and never tends, the one that’s fed on the beauty of Charles’ dark, lowered lashes when he looks down to gather his thoughts, that’s fed on broad shoulders and imposing height and hips Max wants to wrap his legs around so badly that he dreams about it most weeks, that’s fed on the hope that here, away from the 4077th, maybe Charles could smile just for him. 

“Hmmm.” 

Klinger hears the burr of concern in Charles’ voice, the hum in his chest. He studies the exhibit that the Major pauses before. Something about the femoral artery. Charles’ finger rests on the drawing of the thigh and Max decides to gamble. 

“I would like to kiss you there.” His voice is very low, a murmur, like the voices of all the others as they examine these informational displays. 

Charles does not register this enormous trespass at first. Max sees the exact moment when he does; he goes as sweetly brittle as sea glass candy. “Maxwell?”

Max stays facing the display, but he isn’t seeing all of the notes and labels on muscles; he’s seeing Charles on his back, legs splayed, legs  _ naked _ , and through skin far paler and lovelier than the flesh crayon color on the poster, he imagines seeing a blue vein shining through, imagines kissing it to honor all that Atlantic blue blood that makes Charles as magnificent as he is. 

“Always thought honesty was important to you, sir.”  _ And honor _ . 

“You cannot speak to a superior officer in this way!” 

Max just hitches a shoulder and glides to the next display. When Charles joins him, he nods to the exits. “You want I should turn myself over the MPs?” 

“Klinger, I am here to  _ learn.  _ To acquire skills that will be invaluable to the 4077th. Save your games for a more proper time.”

That hurts worse than Hawk scolding him. “I said I was being honest, sir.” He can’t help sounding put out. “You don’t hafta like it any, but you could at least be nice. I’ve seen you turn down plenty of nurses. You were always a gentleman about it.” 

Charles looks around. Max is speaking too low to be overheard, but this is not a conversation for an exhibit hall filled with physicians and brass. Nodding toward a sign for something dull and historical, Winchester all but drags him through the doors. “Explain,” he demands as they stand before a diorama of a modern MASH unit - an irony considering their daily working conditions in one. How can a sterile display convey the smell, Winchester wonders. The cold or the rain? The blood? The death? Max? 

Not that Maxwell Q. Klinger is probably standard military issue. Charles doubts if there’s another being like him in existence. 

Klinger shakes his head. He’s drawn up to his full height, weight on his heels, arms crossed. “No.”

“No?”

“Not if you’re gonna look like that. You’re just gonna be mean. So, let’s go back and get you your invaluable training, ‘cause I get enough mean back at the camp. Maybe they’ll have some thoracic stuff I can read up on,” he mutters, meaning to wound. “Broken heart an’ all.” 

Charles lets him go then shakes his head. He was sent here to learn, certainly… but he’s just learned a good deal of interesting information he hasn’t counted on. Maxwell Klinger is… what? Infatuated with him? He decides infatuated will do for now. Further, Max has studied his character, it seems, enough, at least, to have certain expectations. And he  _ is  _ a gentleman. If a nurse had… said such a thing to him… Charles thinks he would have been gracious in his refusal. 

He returns to his angry little Corpsman with his dark eyes staring at an exhibit without seeing it. “What makes you believe that I am going to be cruel to you?” 

Max models his stance as Charles once saw dancers model muscle function for a class. His chest goes out and one foot is braced behind him. “You stand like this when you’re gonna yell. I mean, I guess you probably wouldn’t  _ yell _ in here, ‘cause it’s like a museum, kinda, but I never heard you say anything nice, standing that way.” 

“I, ah, I see.” He is here trying to discover new ways to repair bone splintered by high-velocity ammunition and now must face the realization that Max seems to know him - breath and bone and all without him knowing. “What… Maxwell, what do you want from me?” 

The Corporal’s eyes close for a moment and it takes this eminent physician several long seconds to realize that the expression changing his features is one of pain. “Nothing I’m gonna get. I’m not stupid, sir. You’re not meant for somebody like me.”

“And that comment about, ah, kissing?” 

“I meant ta say it in my head. Jus’ slipped out.” 

“Strange reaction, Corporal, to someone you maintain is cruel to you.” 

Klinger shrugged. “Not just you. I get it coming and going. I’m no Radar, right? It’s just… when Major Houlihan rides me, she’s just being military. When it’s you… I don’t like ta let you down, Major.” 

Previously, Charles might have said that to be let down, he would first have to have some investment in or connection to the man before him and he realizes that he really  _ has _ been cruel. “You do not let me down, Klinger. You are an asset to your many posts at the 4077th… and a good friend.” 

Klinger smiles at the last. “Thanks.” He’ll take what he can get, much as he wants more. After that, Charles is far more cognizant of his presence and his gaze. Where it alights, he warms, but he lacks the words, rich as he usually is in language, to tell Klinger that his heart is far too shallow to hold all he sees in his gaze… all he’s seen so many times before but never guessed at. 

***

At day’s end, Charles releases him from his duties. Max hopes he might offer to eat with him, but apparently that careless comment landed smack in the middle of the fragile bridge between them, splintering it. He’d stretch his whole body across the ruined space if he could, but he doesn’t think Winchester will reach back. Maybe someday - but not soon. 

So he eats by himself, the food oddly tasteless for being real for a change, and then he slides between cold sheets, pulling his knees up to be as small as possible, a warm spark in the center of a big bed in a dark hotel room. He won’t even be able to complain about it; the whole MASH crew would tease him for failing to enjoy the luxury of a real bed in a real city away from wounded and lice and dysentery.  _ Well, how would you feel,  _ he asks his mental images of them,  _ if you went and said something stupid like I did to someone special as the Major? _

His hiding routine doesn’t last long. The phone rings and it’s Winchester summoning him in his best command voice - the one Klinger would really like if it would just say the right sort of things, like, “On your knees, Corporal,” or “Hold still,” or “Suck.” He sighs at himself for being so hopeless and tangled up. He hadn’t been lying when he’d told Charles he knew better, knew the aristocratic Bostonian with shoulders made for capes or armor or at least a tailored suit that costs far more than Klinger makes in a year wasn’t meant for him. He has rough hands and little education. He has no money and little hopes to make more than two nickles to rub together, hoping they breed more. He has an uncertain gender designation, too, comfortable only if he’s wearing something feminine - even if it’s under his regular clothes (his Mud Hens jersey is a knockout over red lace). 

He knocks and is admitted into Winchester’s room, wondering what’s so all-fired important that Charles is sacrificing the small measure of privacy he’s secured. The Major is still in dress clothes - buttoned up so tightly that Max’s hands twitch with wanting to undo a button, at least. 

“Whaddaya need, sir?” 

Winchester turns his wrist so that the stone set there flashes. “I was speaking to my sister tonight,”

“Expensive.”

“Indeed. She has always been my best advisor, however, young as she is. She informed me that these were not a gift from her. Looking at them now, I feel that I should have recognized the color.” 

Max shuffles his feet. “You don’t hafta keep ‘em if don’t wanna.” 

_ Maxwell, what am I to do with you?  _ “I do prefer to know who my gifts are from that I might extend my thanks.” 

“I don’t give gifts to get something, sir.” 

“What happened to our ambitious schemer?” 

“His heart’s kinda banged up, sir.”

“And would it be soothed if I permitted you to continue what you began at the, ah, the conference today?” 

Max’s eyes go huge. “Tell you… tell you what I wanna do to you, Major?” 

Charles hides a smirk; that shift from “sir” to “Major” is a positive sign. “Only if you wish to.” 

Known for taking the chances that are offered to him, Max nods; that gesture, Charles thinks, is almost a word:  _ please _ . 

Max starts to tremble before he gets a word out, so Charles gifts him the bed. The way the shadows fall lets Max hide his eyes a little. The chair is angled away but Max can see him fine, the lamplight falling over him. 

“You spoke of kissing me, my dear. Surely you would not  _ begin _ , ah, there.”

“No. No. I’d wanna start up higher. Under your jaw. You shouldn’t be the one to take your own ties off, Major. ‘Specialy the silk ones.” 

Charles dances past a valet fantasy - and experiences a surge of real gratitude for the sister who said, “Ch-Charles, you have been a-alone a  _ very l-long time _ . If someone as p-pretty as that Corporal wants to t-talk sweetly to you, do l-live up to that magnificent IQ of y-yours,  _ shut up _ , and let him.” 

Her acceptance has made him brave… he just hopes he can sustain this bravery - and that Max will match it. 

“I know you’re just doin’ this to make up, sir. Don’t worry, okay? I’m not gonna ask for anything else.” 

Radar O’Reilly was the 4077th’s mind reader; in that moment, Charles wonders if the gift comes with the office, if O’Reilly left it to his replacement along with a temperamental phone, sheets of carbon paper, and reams of typewriter ribbon. 

“What, ah, what do you mean, Corporal?” 

“You’re bein’ nice,” he clarifies. “Lettin’ me get the words out. But you can stop looking scared. I told you I already know the score. You belong in Boston with rich dames who know about music and art and books and stuff.”

“I, ah, I appear frightened to you, Maxwell?” How many of his expressions has this child soldier memorized? 

Klinger echoes the look as he echoed his stance in the exhibit hall. “I’ve seen it when you’ve got your surgical mask on,” he explains. “I think… I think you’re afraid you’ll fail. And I get that, but I wonder, sometimes- you know you’re worth a lot no matter what, right? You don’t gotta prove it with surgeries or anything else. The other docs fail sometimes, too. Sometimes there’s nothing nobody can do. But you’re not a stock price. You don’t go up and down to us in how much you’re worth because it was a bad day in OR - or a good one.” 

His pride and his fear demand that he throw up shields of denial against this too-accurate glimpse into his soul. Charles has been unable to prove his worth to his father, so he seeks to be perfect in other areas of his life. Yes, he is often afraid of failure. He thinks of Max’s earlier comment about nurses. How can he be gracious here? Now? His naked, bloody soul is flickering between them. 

Max speaks to spare him. “You don’t hafta do this. It was nice of you and I’m glad you’re still my friend, but I don’t wanna scare you.” 

“I am a Winchester, Klinger. I imagine I can well bear up to a little flattery, my dear.” 

One side of the Major’s mouth ticks up because he can read Max’s face, and it says:  _ nothin’ little about it _ ,  _ Major _ . Maxwell takes a steadying breath and tries to pretend this whole thing doesn’t mean more than he’s letting on. He ignores the knowledge, too, that even if he had a dictionary and a thesaurus at the ready, the words wouldn’t be enough.  _ Not near good enough _ . But he makes do. He’s always known how to make do. 

“You had said something about my tie,” Winchester prompts. 

“Mmm-hmm.” It’s a bright, happy hum, the sound, Charles thinks, of a bee drunk on new summer pollen in an entire acre of sunflowers. “Think I could get your pulse going, Major? Kissing down your throat? I’d stuff your tie in my pocket, too. You have more. It’d smell like you - your aftershave, your skin.”

No one has ever desired a souvenir  _ of him _ . Charles’ eyes widen, brows coming together in mild wonder. 

“Jacket next,” Klinger continues. “But slow. You carry a lot of tension in those shoulders of yours. You should let me rub ‘em. Play with your hair a little.”

“There is precious  _ little _ in which your fingers could play.” 

“Still pretty. And with your jacket off, we’re closer to seeing more of how pretty you are without your shirt. Why do you tuck everything, anyway?”

Charles could tell him it’s proper - it’s how things are done, but the truth is that he tends to puff the part that isn’t tucked out to hide the gentle swell of his stomach - and he thinks Klinger knows it. 

Before he can dissuade Klinger of his physical beauty - the Major knows perfectly well what he looks like, even to loving eyes - the phone rings. It’s the 4077th and Klinger slips out because healing trumps talking pretty to the man he loves. He falls asleep dreaming of buttons. 

***

The next day’s walk through the exhibits they missed the day before looks the same, Max figures. Winchester is still a form of graceful that ought to be reserved for mythical things or dancers on a stage, and it pleases him to trail his imposing form and think of slipping his belt free of its loops, playing in the pockets, undoing snaps and the zip. Charles gives him a look over his shoulder now and then. 

“I apologize for last night’s turn,” he says when they pause alone before something that looks like a labyrinth art print but is actually about capillaries. 

“You hafta do your job, Major. Thanks for letting me say… all that.” 

They walk in silence after that, but Max’s mind is churning. He is a schemer by nature. They are surrounded by anatomy. He rests a finger - rough, callused, dark skinned - on a drawing’s sternum. “One hand here,” he says, low, soft, looking away from those eyes that he wants to drown in. “Workin’ on buttons.”

Winchester leans over his shoulder as if to look closer. “You only require one hand for that?”

It’s a green light and Max wants to dance in the lime-bright beams. “From sewing. Clever fingers.” 

“And the other hand?” 

“We should keep moving, Major.” 

Charles nods, but there’s a heat in his gaze that Max has never seen there before. They make their meandering way to a mostly deserted hall. Charles smiles, directs his gaze to a poster on carpal tunnel. “The other hand?” 

“Under your shirt to start. Then under the other shirt. Pushing them up so I can get my mouth on you.” He looks proud of himself for this one. “You can handle it, right? It’s just body stuff.” 

This is true… but Charles has always looked on his own body with cold, clinical rationality. He never realized that Max was looking at him differently. He rarely enjoys being in his own skin. If Max wants to enjoy him, shouldn’t he let him?

“I can endure, yes.” 

“Good.”

“I trust that this is improving this trip for you?” 

“Lots.” 

It makes him want to groan. How can Max sound so happy? “Carry on then, Corporal.” 

So Charles looks at charts and diagrams. Max looks at Charles. The surgeon murmurs over ideas he disagrees with. Max rhapsodizes over his hips and thighs. He could say more, but he really is worried about how much the Major can bear. It does give him some peace, though. Charles knows. Charles knows and seems set to permit his friendship. 

Max cannot touch him, but he wants to cuddle up and he lets Charles see this when he stops at his shoulder and tips his face up to catch those eyes. “Thanks.”

“For what?” 

“Letting this. You’re a good friend.”

It wins him a laugh that he tries to stifle because they’re before a display about gas warfare and  _ that  _ really doesn’t merit amusement. “Maxwell, it is true that I have had precious few true friendships, but I feel confident that none of them ever wanted, ah,  _ that _ .” 

“Kinda sad, Major.”

“What, Maxwell?”

“That every friend you ever had managed to be blind. Kinda weird coincidence when you think about it.” And then he glides on, smiling, and Charles is intrigued. 

“I,” he begins when he catches up, “I do not believe friendship ever much includes, ah, all that.”

Klinger looks at him with far more confusion in his wide, dark eyes than he’s regarded any exhibit they’ve examined. “Where’dya think love  _ starts _ from, Major?” 

“Having never been in love, I suppose I am not the one from whom to ask directions.” 

Those wide eyes grow hurt. “Never? You should try it.” Sensing this is harder for Charles to hear than his flattery, Max flits off, light-footed, giving him space to mull over this. 

“How?” This is asked almost into his ear and he shivers because he wants to turn and press against all that impossible height, to catch that mouth with his and kiss Charles so hard and long that it colors his pale lips, makes him flush with longing, makes his broad chest heave. Klinger thinks he  _ needs  _ these things, his Major, thinks Charles has gone far too long without a kind touch - to say nothing of an enamored one. Max sure knows he has. Under the eyes of watchful parents, Laverne had kissed his cheek when he’d shipped out… then broken his heart with a divorce and the news of her remarriage and pregnancy. Klinger is good-hearted and tries to wish her well in his thoughts… but that task will get a lot easier if Charles agrees to what he’s about to say. 

“I can teach you.” He doesn’t turn, though he braces as if for a blow. “If you want. If you could just let me hold you and say nice things and maybe kiss you a little.” 

Charles’ eyes are the sort of wide they went when he first discovered medical entries in his grandfather’s encyclopedia and felt them speak to him -  _ knew  _ they were meant for him. This expression contains a little shock - but not at the boldness of his companion. Max  _ is trembling _ . And Charles thinks - believes, really - that he’s trembling at the idea of touching him. He knows that if he says yes, Maxwell will treat him with exquisite care, will uphold any boundary he sets, will keep any secret he insists upon. Dark eyes glance into his with a plea.  _ Let me try to make you love me.  _

His voice is unexpectedly rough, almost a low growl, when he tells his pretty, constant, enamored companion to go upstairs and wait for him. Klinger’s mouth drops open and the surgeon fights the rogue urge to trace his bottom lip. “You are far too much of a distraction, my dear. I will be here all day without learning those things which I, ah, now find myself most curious about.” 

Klinger takes a step - demonstrating a soldierly obedience that isn’t a bit out of place in their surroundings, but which does nothing to hide the eagerness that practically has him buzzing - then turns to say, “I hope this is okay, Major, but ‘m real proud of you for all this.” 

Charles nods his thanks and wonders how every discerning, medically-trained eye doesn’t turn to watch that slender figure go; in a hall of bodies - models and diagrams and photographs - that retreating form is the only thing worthy of real study. With a renewed feeling of superiority (he has always had the very best taste), Charles returns to his notes, determined to learn well what he has been sent to learn - and quickly. 

*** 

An hour passes, then two, and Klinger tries not to worry that the Major has fled back to Tokyo; he knows Charles is a dedicated doctor, but he’s far more interested in the man behind the role - the heart of a heart surgeon who has lavished care on others and kept none for himself. The Corporal also coaches himself not to be greedy. Charles might feel nothing for him and stop everything. If he doesn’t, Max promises himself that he won’t push. He just wants to make the other man happy. 

When Charles returns, Max asks if he’s learned all he wanted to. As he removes his boots, Charles replies, “About medicine - quite. I will, indeed, require time to think through and organize my notes. Now, however, I find myself quite, ah, eager, to turn to new pursuits.” 

Smiling, Max stands to beckon him. “Come on, then. Get over here.”

“I had not realized that any part of the Klinger Collection was traveling with us.”

“Has to unless I want hives. You want me to change?”

“Certainly not. You look quite radiant.” 

This gives Klinger the confidence to tug on his wrists until he has him at his side. He catches a look of unease then and sets out to erase it. “Major, listen to me, okay? If you say ‘stop,’ I’ll stop. And if you want me ta go - I’ll go and we don’t have to say anything about it ever again. You don’t hafta do anything. Just let me take care of you. And hey, if there’s something you like, pretend it’s OR.” He grins to show he’s teasing. “Use your doctor voice and tell me ‘more,’ or ‘slower.’ You can do that, right?” 

Charles thinks that he can - and then he forgets to think because Max is on his knees at his side, kissing him with a combination of fairytale abandon and gentle rapture, one hand stroking up his neck to play in his curls, the other loosening his tie. 

He smiles under Klinger’s mouth because he remembers what he said about that tie, before, when all of this was just a dream built out of words - and words, Charles is discovering, are very inadequate for conveying a lover’s care. “Keep it,” he says into a mouth that is bent on guiding him through several pleasant variations of the same kiss, working in sudden surprises, changing the tempo of the blood pounding in his temples. Charles did not know that kissing had anything in common with dancing, but he is being softly whirled around, gently led, openly admired by a very considerate partner. 

When Klinger draws back, it’s to drop down beside him, eyes closed, visibly savoring. 

“Where, ah,” his voice sounds strange and small, awed, “where did you learn to kiss like that?” 

“I used ta run a kissing booth for Father Mulcahy’s charity carnival. Everybody wants to show you their tricks.” 

Charles  _ hates  _ the idea of the members of the 4077th in line to purchase what is clearly his - and has always been, from the feel of things - even if he didn’t know it. He makes a note to donate to the orphanage… and to ban further kissing booths… or, at least, keep Maxwell  _ out  _ of them. 

He turns his head against the mattress. “More?” 

Klinger claps in delight. “Good job, Major!” He is just as enthusiastic when he resumes the kiss, crawling into his lap to find a better angle, forcing Charles to hold him up because he’s content to crash into him in a disorganized tangle of limbs and skirts. 

He tries to keep their mouths linked, but Charles has said the magic word and more is exactly what Max plans to have as he kisses his jaw, his throat (he gets a nice little gasp out of that) and then he moves to his chest. He doesn’t take the Major’s shirts off; he’s holding out hope that Charles might do it himself or ask him to. For now, he kisses him through fabric, sees Charles close his eyes, and tells him how very, very beautiful he is. 

The Major is moved to hear this; he literally  _ moves  _ in response, surprised little motions. He moves, too, because he is shy about certain parts of himself. Max sits back and waits with a grin until he stops squirming away. 

“ _ All _ of you is beautiful, Major.” He snuggles down against Winchester’s chest, one hand sweeping up and down his side, tripping over his stomach. “Who told you otherwise, baby?” 

Charles gapes; how does Max know these beliefs were once external to him - instilled and reinforced by years of verbal abuse? How can he look at him this way - so soft, so sure he can  _ fix _ this? 

“All of you,” Klinger repeats, kissing his fingers. “Every. Single. Part.” 

Watching those kisses land, Charles thinks of easing his fingers inside his mouth to stroke his tongue, to ask him to suck on them. Max molds his free hand over the swell of the Major’s stomach, fingers pointed toward his waistband. Charles forgets that he hates his stomach because he  _ really  _ likes Max’s touch there - warm, callused, gentle. 

“You really are quite the, ah, the, mmm-oh, the seductress, my dear.”

“Nah. You’ve just spent too much time patching up somebody else’s skin an’ not enough time thinkin’ about how nice it is to be inside yours.” 

He’s never been all that comfortable in his own skin, but Charles thinks he can be grateful for this, for blood, skin, and bones, if it gets him Max nuzzling into him, cuddled tight against him, looking up every so often to ask permission with his eyes for another kiss. 

“Mmmm, my dear girl, by your reckoning, what would I owe this kissing booth of yours?” 

“ ‘m chargin’ you in trade.”

Winchester laughs as the joke dawns.

Klinger smiles to see him smiling. “What? You kiss nice.” 

Charles reads the light in his eyes. “There is something you wish to add, my dear?”

“I dunno if you’re ready for it.”

“Try me.”

He looks away and Charles marvels at how young he appears with his eyes downcast. “I, uh, if I was, y’know, losing it for you - I’d want you kissing me then. It’d feel like falling and being caught at the same time, I bet.” 

The only thing that Charles has ever experienced that fits that description is music. He rather likes being compared to music. He reaches out, brushes over parted lips and cheekbones. “I should… Max… I should be most honored to catch you.” 

The Corporal frames his face with his hands and murmurs about just how pretty his cheekbones are, especially with the addition of a summery blush. “No, baby. We don’t hafta go so fast. Tonight, just hold onto me. Start believin’ me when I tell you that you’re perfect.” 

“And what do you receive for all of your generosity?” 

“Seeing you like this. With your collar open. Untucked. I can pretend we’re back home and it’s Sunday and the bed’s too warm to wanna get up - and maybe eventually we’ll make it to the kitchen. I make good honey-bottom coffee cake - did you know that? But it’s okay if it takes us ‘til noon because I bet you’re real pretty to kiss with the sun splashing all over you and your hair messy.” 

“Darling… you truly  _ are _ in love with me.” 

“Yeah. Who wouldn’t be?” 

Charles presses forward, stealing kisses from his candied mouth. “Then allow me to love you back.” 

Klinger tries to shake his head, but his hair falls into his eyes and then he feels those long fingers dancing over him, loosening his bodice, learning the contours of him. His head drops; he goes limp with pleasure. “Would you be like this with anyone?” Charles whispers, but he knows Max would not. It is as if his hands activate something in him; he is transparent about how much Charles’ touch pleases him. 

“ ‘m supposed to be pleasing you, Major baby.”

“Oh, you are. Very much, my dear.” He guides him down beside him and whispers in his ear. 

Beyond happily eager, Max does as he asks, tongue teasing his fingertips until they shine, teeth scraping the sensitive pads of his fingers. “Sweet girl,” Charles praises him as one hand disappears between his dress; Max continues to lavish care on the other until he needs his mouth to pant… and whine. 

“Oh, Maxwell…”

He watches the younger man’s eyelashes flutter and knows he can easily overwhelm him… and he is not willing to do so just yet. 

“Mmmm… Major…. you tryin’ ta get me to beg?”

“Not ‘tall. I am  _ joining _ you, pet.” He gestures to his belt. “If you would assist me?” 

Max undresses him as if he’s hotwiring a getaway car; Charles has no idea how the transformation from clothed to naked occurs in mere seconds… but he’s happy to draw the coverlet down around them and hold his new lover near. They arch against one another, fingers grasping at whatever they can reach, finding a rhythm they both know they cannot long sustain. And when Maxwell begins to slip over the edge, Charles does kiss him, holding him tight as he shakes. 

The last thing he says before slipping into sleep is, “I missed you, Major baby, even before I knew you. Down even to my bones. Will I hafta keep on doing that, after this?”

Charles kisses his furrowed brow. “No.” Max is asleep when he tells him that he had missed him, too, even if he hadn’t known what he longed for. It is enough to know that he is whole now. He smiles as he thinks that of all the things he expected to discover at a medical conference, the boundaries of his heart were the very last! 

End! 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



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